Edgeplay
by dirtybrat
Summary: Wikipedia defines edgeplay as types of sexual play considered to be pushing on the edge of the safe,sane&consensual creed in BDSM.Edward&Bella are committed,experienced players.This is a snapshot into their edgeplay. AU-H,lemons,ADULT.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I do not own Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended. Copyright and trademarked items belong to their owners, not me. **

**This is a story about BDSM and specifically edgeplay. As such, it involves topics you may not be comfortable with. I hope that even if you feel like you need to stop reading, you skip to the end. Edward's closing words are very powerful, and I hope you read and enjoy them.  
**

"Where are we going?" I ask, nervous.

He's blindfolded me and was now walking me somewhere. His chest is pressed against my back, guiding and moving me.

"Wherever the fuck I want us to go," he replies. I attempt to contain the shudder that ripples through my body at his commanding voice and presence, but fail.

I love this.

I love him. Need him. Crave him like this.

We stop suddenly, and I shiver due to the temperature this time. It's fucking cold, and I can only guess where we're going, but know better than to vocalize anymore about it. I don't want to be punished today, I only want to be pleasured. Pleasured in the most delicious of ways; the ways only Edward knows and loves.

A door opens, a car I assume, and I wonder if anyone is watching us. Have the neighbors noticed me being forced out of the house, my arms held behind my back, black silk scarf over my eyes? Probably not. Self-absorbed assholes.

"Sit," he commands.

My left foot shoots out. If I'm getting into the passenger side, I'll need to balance my foot first on the car floor. I've done this enough times that I'm well-practiced at getting into an auto while blindfolded. I hide my smirk at the thought that I'm a lucky bitch.

The door slams closed next to me and I startle. The tone of his voice has been harder than normal, and I'm worried. I suspect we're spending a night away for fun, but can't be certain.

Edward enters the car wordlessly and begins to drive us … somewhere.

At each stop, I wonder if we've arrived, or are we simply at a stop sign? A red light? Panic swells inside of me more than once at the idea that we're driving around in plain daylight, in our own car, where anyone can see. Would they recognize me? Would they think my husband was simply treating his wife to a romantic weekend away?

If only they knew.

An eternity, or perhaps ten minutes, thirty, who knows, later, the car turns off.

My body is still as I wait, my mind working overtime to figure out where we are. The car door opens on my side and the gust of cold wind hits me hard. I'm not dressed for the weather, wearing a very short, very tight skirt and a thin, cotton t-shirt he picked for me. My boots have zero traction on the ground and I'm grateful for his hand as he tugs me up and out of the car, causing me to lose my balance slightly.

Again, he's behind me, pressing me ahead. This time, I can feel the hardness of his body; he's getting turned on. From this, I can assume we aren't going someplace public. Edward has worked long and hard at controlling his body. Long before he was my Dominant, he was someone else's submissive, perfecting the art.

My hands are behind my back again, wrist in front of wrist, bound tightly by his large fingers. My fingers itch to reach and grab him, knowing from the heat that he's inches behind me. The itch doesn't last long, however, as I feel my body pressed against a cold surface. Brick, maybe? My nipples tighten and ache at the temperature and sensation. Foregoing a bra means they're just underneath my shirt, vulnerable to the elements.

Edward presses his cock into my open hand, my body scraping the building harder as he pushes against me. I let my breath out in a huff as the force of his body presses it from my lungs unwillingly. Teeth sink into the juncture of my neck and body, hard and needy. I want to moan so badly, to squirm, to find some relief, but I stand stock still, letting him own me. Each time he exerts his force over me, I sink slightly deeper into our time together in my head. I let go of my everyday life a little more, and become His.

Keys jingle and I hear the sound of a door next to me. Are we at a house? Someone's workplace? A club?

I don't hear anything other than our feet as we walk again. My fingers never leave his body; he's placed it there, and I know better than to remove my hand. Our steps echo against walls and I get a sense that wherever we are, it's an open space.

We stop walking, Edward maintaining a slight distance from my body this time, and I have to strain to keep my hand wrapped around his warm cock. My balance is even more off kilter, hands stretched behind me and my center of gravity shifts as we stand. I can hear him doing something, the rustle of material, the jingle of metal, his light, deliciously fucking evil laugh as he prepares whatever it is he's about to do to me, with me, for me.

For us, and for him, as well. What he does to me, he does for himself. The rebound of the joy I feel at pleasing and serving him is where my pleasure is obtained. Indirectly, most of the time. When I'm lucky, and good, and he's feeling generous, that's when he delivers exquisite pleasure directly to my body. The rest of the time, I am happy to spread my legs, open my mouth, lay my body out before him and serve.

He releases my hands and backs away from me. My head automatically lowers, eyes closed even though I'm blindfolded, and my hands clasp together in front of me. His pose. The one he taught me. The one that pleases him the most.

He hums lightly in approval before speaking. "You're such a good slut. I bet you're already wet and ready for me."

His hand reaches between my legs, forcing them apart as he does so, and dips into me. He's rough, aggressive, not feeling me to please me – touching me to please himself. I can feel his finger wiggle just slightly and he takes it out. I try not to laugh at the dipping the oil stick analogy that always comes into my head in these moments. He knows I'm always ready for him, for whatever he wants and needs to give me.

Wordlessly, his finger is pressing against my lips, and I open my mouth, complying with his silent request. I lick and suck his finger, lapping at my own juices, knowing what will happen if I don't clean him to his satisfaction. Either way, it's become a part of our routine I look forward to. The salty tang only serves to turn me on more as my thoughts wander.

The hand is gone from my face and lands with a sharp smack on my ass. I guess he's still behind me, from the angle of the skin against mine, and only after the sting begins to abate do I realize he's pulled my skirt up; the spank was directly on my skin, not over the fabric of the skirt.

"Spread your legs."

Complying, I move my feet what I think (and hope) is the proper distance apart. Years of playing together, blindfolded and sighted, have taught me to measure body movements with methods other than visual cues.

A crack sounds in the background and I bite my lip, thankful he can't see my face. Hopeful he can't see my face, anyway. The sound was behind me, so unless he's brought someone else in, he shouldn't be able to see. He may have brought someone else in, I realize, and wage an internal debate with myself about what I hope he wants tonight. On one hand, I get a bigger thrill the more he uses me and shows me off, but sometimes I just want him.

He's still testing out various implements. I hear the crack of what I think is a riding crop against some type of surface, chains and rope being wound or unwound, a flogger thudding against something. He's warming me up, perhaps warming himself up as well, but with each stroke, my jealousy grows. _I_ want to be the object he's paying attention and using.

My body tightens when I feel him in proximity again. Something slips over my head, something else, and I can tell he's putting on a better blindfold. This one will be something not publicly acceptable, and I have a pretty good idea of which one it is from our collection when the smell of leather meets my nose. It also won't slip or slide during our playtime, and the shiver of anticipation that we're about to begin overtakes me.

"Undress."

With zero hesitation, I lift my shirt over my head. My legs move together and I pull my skirt down, removing it from my body. I fold them both, holding them in my outstretched hands, palms up. They're gone a moment later, and I feel a pang that he didn't even touch me to take them away. The hum racing through my body increases at his denial of himself.

"Boots."

I unzip the right first, then the left, and hold them in my right hand. My bare feet are now on very cold floor, concrete if I had to guess. The boots are tugged from my grasp just as my clothes, without a single touch or comment.

Hearing him breathe is my only indication of where he is in the room. His feet have stopped making as much noise as when we walked in, and I guess that he's removed his own shoes as well. I drift to thinking about his feet, his legs, his entire taut, lean, muscled body.

"Isabella, take two steps forward and climb onto the table."

Doing as he asks, I reach my arm in front of me to feel the surface before climbing on. It's cold, smooth, and very hard. This is no padded table, nor is it designed to be comfortable. My knee lifts and I use the sides to help pull myself up, then realize he hasn't stated if he wants me on my back or stomach. For that matter, he hasn't said whether he wants me laying or sitting. _Climb onto the table._ I think about his instructions and remain how I'm positioned when I climbed up: on all fours.

Lifting my neck, I raise my head and keep the smirk off my face, tightening my belly so that my back is in proper alignment. I can feel him looking at me, gazing, as he's done hundreds of times. Evaluating me. Slightly ashamed, mostly turned on, I wonder what he's thinking as he looks. Sometimes he vocalizes his thoughts as he makes his way around my body, but not usually. Typically, I'm left in quiet to create my own thoughts of what he's seeing. My own self-evaluation. It makes me strive to be better for him. Strive to look better, to give him a better physical specimen for his pleasure.

The first thud takes me by surprise, but after the initial sting, I'm prepared. My hips beg to sway and tease him, non-verbally asking for harder and harsher strokes against my backside, but my brain follows the rules. _For now. _

The velvety suede of the flogger strokes my skin, delivering my favorite kind of impact – the soft, thud at first, followed by harder and more stingy sensations as he ramps up and changes the angle of the falls. Each time the falls land on me, I whimper in my mind. It's like thirty fingers touching and stroking me, especially when he lands them over my dripping pussy, and I want to beg him to drop it and fuck me. Well, part of me wants that, the other part wants him to continue to flog me until I drop from exhaustion, which he's done from time to time.

"Go ahead," he says. "I want to hear you."

I'm startled by the volume and intensity of the moan as I let it go. He laughs lightly and my ears prickle at the sound, my brain delighted that he's pleased. My rigid body stays tight and upright, despite the urge for my muscles to turn to jelly.

Several back-and-forth strokes later, he pauses momentarily. What feels like cold plastic is at my entrance, moving easily past my slippery lips and sinking into my waiting cunt. I can only hum with pleasure as he moves it in and out, the ridges of what I think is the handle of the flogger he was just using on me providing an extra sensation.

His hand moves, leaving the implement inside me. The suede falls swish between my legs for a moment before settling, confirming he's been using the flogger handle, and I clench my muscles to hold it steady. This, of course, makes me want to come even more, and he knows he's torturing and teasing me. I whimper, because fuck me, he's already told me he wants to hear, and he needs to know he's affecting me profoundly.

"I know," he teases, voice coming from somewhere behind me. "I never thought I'd be jealous of plastic."

Cold metal rubs across my nipples, causing them to pucker and stand at attention. His warm fingers stroke over them once and I realize he's standing in front of me. Pinching roughly, he tugs at my left nipple, then I feel the clamp bite down. I take a sharp breath as I wait for the clamp to appear on the right, and it does moments later.

Then the warm throb begins, and I ache even more. Heat radiates from my nipples up my breasts and across my entire chest. I want him to stay where he is, to kiss me rough and hard, and touch me where I'm pinched. Instead, he adds what I think is a small weight to the chain, giving a permanent tug to them. I surmise it's a weight because I feel the tug even after I know he's moved away.

Moaning softly, I let it out the only way I can. If I don't, I'll begin to move, beg him to take me any way he wants, and he won't. He'll just punish me more for disobeying, so I breathe and moan. I let the words come out as sounds, repeating them in my head in a desperate attempt for him to unscramble them and hear my plea.

Fingertips tease my exposed clit, and moments later, a pinch to the side. I'm grateful he's placing the clips or clamps, whatever he's using, on my lips and not over my clit. The pain, sting, pleasure, and warmth spreads from my chest down to my lower half as he adds more clips. His fingers slip and he brushes the handle still inside me.

"You're so fucking wet I can't even get a good grab," he says, pinching his fingers harder against my skin.

His other hand lands on my ass, a sharp, stinging spank, and I moan again. My body clenches and I'm sure he can see the flogger bobbing with my internal movements.

I hear him hum and there's a smile behind the sound. This distracts me momentarily from his fingers, but my mind heads back to them as I feel another clip added. I begin to wonder just how many he's going to put on me, when I realize he's stopped.

The flogger is removed from my body with a slight tug, slipping out easily once I relax.

"Clean the mess you've made."

He doesn't wait for me to agree or consent. The handle is in my mouth as he finishes speaking.

Again, I'm lapping and licking at it, this time vocalizing my pleasure as I do so. At times, the handle shifts too far back and I worry I might gag, but I'm able to control my throat by making sure to keep my focus and concentrate. Relaxing, I focus on the plastic as it shifts in and out of my mouth, just as it had in my pussy. Letting my tongue glide over the ridges, I imagine it's Edward's cock, slick with my taste after fucking me.

That thought alone almost makes me come, but then his hand is lower, ghosting over the clips on my pussy lips, and the pain is a reminder that we haven't fucked. I'm just a sopping wet, needy mass of bones and muscles, at his disposal.

God, that thought makes me clench again and I purse my lips around the handle. I can smell the wet suede as it gets closer to my mouth, then is removed for the last time. His hand is still teasing over the clips on my pussy and I'm so lost in pleasure. It aches, I ache, and I need more.

My body is suddenly alone again, each part of him removed, and I want to shout in frustration. The sting of something against my clips provokes a sharp yelp and I gasp for air. Intense, sharp pain is all I feel for several minutes as he teases me with what I recognize only from the feel of it as our riding crop. He works the clips on my lips, then trails up my abdomen to the clamps on my nipples, circling them, slapping at the fleshy parts and the aching nipple.

"You're very red, Isabella. I can't tell if you're enjoying or enduring."

His voice is warm and soothing, and in that moment, I'm not sure which I'm doing either. I try to make noise, but it comes out as a needy whimper, not at all what my brain was telling my mouth to do.

"Lay down."

A moment passes, one brief moment, where I think about the pain I will endure as I lay on the cold metal beneath me, each of the clips and clamps attached to my body forced to twist and pull, tugging at my skin. And then I drop, muscles in my body visibly tensing I'm sure, as the pain hits.

Focusing, I take deep breaths. I'm hit with such a strange wave of conflicting emotions. The sheer pain from the objects attached to my body, but the pleasure from them as well. The pleasure from hearing Edward's soft hum, knowing I've pleased him with my compliance. Knowing I've pleased him with the show of my body, accepting his pain gratefully, thankfully.

My need intensifies tenfold.

The cold of the metal eases some of the ache, but for the most part, my body feels on fire. The throb and ache radiates from my slick cunt to my nipples and back again.

Fingers probe my openings, vaginal and anal, and my breathing increases in speed and depth. I grunt as he pushes into me, thankfully between my lips and not into my ass at that moment. As he slips and slides them around inside me, I moan non-stop. He's working magic on my body, bringing his hands out to prod at the clips periodically, provoking the painful sensations, then shifting back to pleasure.

"Turn over," he says.

I do so quickly, relieved to have the pressure off my front half. The smooth leather of the crop is still teasing and torturing me, though, this time from a new angle. I can feel the rough edge of it against my skin, the loop where the leather doubles back, and I sigh. There's no sense in fighting anything he's doing, it's all exactly what I want.

As he reaches the apex of my thighs, I feel the leather move from my skin, then come down where I think it is over a clip. I hold my breath while I wait; I'm suspicious he's going to use the crop to remove the clip in (what I know from experience is) a very painful way, and if I'm not holding my breath, I will no doubt scream. Perhaps that's what he wants, but I'm not quite ready to give it to him.

Surprising me, I feel my left nipple clamp come off quickly. I can tell he's opened the clamp before removing it, but the fast open means the blood has rushed back in, and tears pool in my eyes. My body goes rigid again as he cups my breast, tongue reaching out to stroke and soothe the painful flesh. I let out my breath and sigh, bathing in my mental conflict of pleasure versus pain again. I want him to do this over and over, forever, every day of our lives. I want to feel the sting of his pain, then the soothing ultimate pleasure of everything he does.

The right nipple clamp is removed in much the same way, and I feel the weight of the chain and adornment rest on my belly as he touches and teases that side. He's more rough, plucking at the pink tip, and I let out a strangled noise. My legs shift together ever so slightly, in what's meant to be a pleasurable move, but I've forgotten about the clips and the stinging pain between my thighs is back.

"You're making a mess on my table," he says, laughing lightly. "You might just be enjoying this a little too much, eh?"

The crop is abandoned, I hear it land somewhere else in the room once it's removed from my body. Skin is against skin on my pussy, and he removes several clips in a row. I'm moaning, in pleasure and pain, as I writhe slightly beneath his touch. His tongue is on me, licking and lapping between my lips, as he continues to release clips. I realize he's finished, they're all gone, when he runs his hand over the surface of my skin. Back and forth, up and down, side-to-side, he rubs. The friction combines with the heat of the blood rushing back in, and the sensation of his tongue and lips, and I realize I'm begging to come.

"Please, oh god, please."

"Not yet."

Two words crush my soul and make me soar as he pulls away again.

A breeze rushes over me and I shiver. I'm cold, parts of my body are wet, both from my reactions and from his saliva, and I'm horny. My whole body feels swollen, inflated from the attempt to grow larger and absorb more of his touch.

Tapping of metal against metal catches my ears, and I sharpen my focus. _The fuck?_

Mentally running through the bank of toys I know he has at his disposal, I begin to wonder what he's got in his hands. It could be the Wartenberg wheel. It could be a metal clamp, but he's only just taken those off. They wouldn't be coming back on so soon, unless he's going to put them somewhere else. As I think, I realize it could be any number of toys we have.

"I love your body. I love watching my little slut writhe and wriggle, watching your body fight with your brain to move. Seeing your breathing pick up, watching your boundaries drop off. You are so delectably fuckable right now. Your pussy is wet, your mouth is open in the perfect oh shape, and I bet you'd let me do just about anything I want right now. Am I right?"

He's teasing me with his words, close to my ear. I can feel the heat of his breath as he speaks, his words covering my body and making me flush with excitement, pleasure, and pride that I'm pleasing him.

"Yes, Master."

My answer is more breathy than I intend and my body squirms.

"That's the perfect answer, because what I'm about to do is something you've begged me for. Sometimes I've wondered if you really want it, if you really knew what you were getting yourself into, but I realized that's not my choice to make. Now _I_ want it, and since you offer your body, mind, and spirit to me so willingly, so beautifully, I intend to take it."

His words wash over me, scaring the living fuck out of me. What in the hell is he going to do? What have I begged him for that he's not already given me?

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, Master," I say, certain my voice is quivering with anticipation and fear.

A warm hand comes to my chest, resting directly over my heart. His thumb sweeps out and slides over my nipple, still aching and sore. It perks to life again, stiffening painfully beneath his touch.

"Trust me," he reassures. "Let go."

I feel a sharp prick between my breasts, then cold metal slides down to my belly button. The burn is immediate, and my eyes move rapidly beneath both blindfolds. I still can't tell what he has, what he's doing, and it worries me.

"Do you remember asking me to mark you, Isabella?"

_Jesus Christ._

"Yes, Master," I half-speak, half-moan.

I never expected him to ever actually go through with it. Edward has no interest in bloodplay and has repeatedly told me he doesn't want to quote unquote _go there_. The thought that he'd lower one of his boundaries for me causes my excitement to multiply. I hum, moaning as the metal slips in a circle around my belly button.

His tongue laps at my skin, along the same path I assumed he dragged the blade, and the thought that he's lapping my ruby red blood excites me further.

"You taste divine," he says with a small moan. _Fuck._

I hold back every emotion inside as I begin to tremble. Am I really ready for this? Do I really want him to do this, to mark my body? Even if it's not permanent, he's _hurting_ me, genuinely hurting me.

And I kind of like it.

No, no, I don't kind of like it. I fucking love it.

Just as before, he's alternating the pain with intense pleasure. I can feel the metal against my skin and there is no drag. The blade is sharp enough, he's done enough research to know how to do this, and I'm overwhelmed again. For me – he's doing this for me.

The now warmed metal presses into my thigh and I bite my tongue to keep from making a noise. It makes a stinging path up to where the limb meets my body, and then around to the top of my mound.

"Shall I mark you here?" he asks, teasing mockery in his tone.

Thankfully, the blade lays flat against my clit, between my lips. I'm unsure how I might react if he slid the sharpened steel there, but just the thought has me moaning, desperate to press up and take the decision out of his hands. Desperate, despite my rational thought, to feel the burn of it against my inner flesh.

I can feel the blade searing a path across my torso, up to my breasts. My breathing increases and I'm panting, panicking. I want this, I want to please him, to have him mark me as his, but it's _so much._ The worry over the blood I'm losing is making me lightheaded, or perhaps it's the actual blood loss causing the sensation. I've lost track of where the blade has moved, shifted, pierced. The entirety of my body feels as though it's on fire, stinging from the surface cuts he's leaving, buzzing from the pleasure of his sounds and movements.

My thoughts swirl and I realize I need him to slow down. Now is the time when my needs have to come first, as I feel myself drifting away from my body. Even though I'm laying down, I can feel my body letting go. I barely have the breath to whisper, but I manage a very weak utterance of "yellow" before I let a shuddering breath out, and pray he's heard me.

His voice is right at my ear again, keeping me with him.

"Isabella, take a deep breath," he says calmly. I try to breathe as deeply as I can, but it feels panicky and shallow still. "Yes, like that. Very good. Another one."

As my lungs fill and empty, the fuzz in my brain clears just a little bit, and I'm thankful. I didn't drop a red safeword for a reason: he's given me a gift and I want to push through this feeling. This is what playing is about sometimes, finding that edge and skating along it.

Edward's hand is on my chest again, over my heart. I can feel the organ thudding deeply in my body, each whoosh of blood rushing through my veins helping me to come back to myself.

"Are you okay?"

His tone is quiet and calm, but nervous.

"I think so," I answer truthfully.

I start to feel bad. I've never had to stop a scene before (only brief pauses), and this seems like failure to me. I've disappointed him, and what if he never agrees to push any boundaries again? The tears pool in my eyes more, and I can feel the blindfold absorbing them, soaking wet against my face. I consider begging him to take it off, to let me go. I want to hide within myself, ashamed I can't even handle what I've asked for.

"Another deep breath, Isabella, I can see you panicking again. Trust me, please. You're okay. You're safe."

His hand is stroking my body, criss-crossing my chest and I have a brief fear he's spreading blood all over my body. I repeat his words in my head like a mantra. I'm okay. I trust Edward. I'm safe.

Several more deep breaths later, I feel his wet lips at my chest. He drops one solitary kiss over my heart.

"Are you okay?" he asks again.

"Yes."

Finally, I can answer confidently and truthfully.

"Do you want me to go on, or would you like to end the scene?"

"Please, Master, I want you to continue."

My breathing has evened out, and I can only trust him to believe me now. It's in his hands, either way.

"We're almost done, my greedy girl," he says with a small laugh. I can still hear the hint of worry in his voice, and it reassures me that he cares. I know that if I had asked for the scene to end, it would have right then and there, with nothing harsh or wrong between us.

Instead, as I've requested, I can feel several swirls of the metal against my skin again, and I moan. My body is actually pressing up into the blade, in an attempt to get him to press harder, go deeper.

His fingers twine into my hair and he licks my skin several more times. Each time, the sting of the etching left by the blade reminds me I'm still here, still indulging in Edward's perfect care of me. Fingertips glide on my skin, slickness carrying them until the moisture dissipates and they skid.

"I'm going to fuck you now. I think I've earned it, Isabella, don't you?"

"Yes, Master."

I'm practically purring as I speak, the pleasure carrying me through the pain again.

The thought that he's going to be inside me, and soon, almost sends me over the edge. I feel what I guess are his fingers first, teasing and playing with me. He loves to take his time, and there's nothing I love more than him taking his time... usually.

Right now, though, I want to be fucked very hard, and very thoroughly. Normally, I'd beg with my eyes, use every trick I know of to silently convey my need, but I'm left with nothing at my disposal.

His warm body covers mine and I bring my hips up, teasing him. If I can't outright tell him, or plead with my looks, I can use my body to my advantage.

I'm surprised when he pulls my legs and they dangle off the edge of the table. This metal at the end of the table is cold, and my body wants to shrink away from it. Opening my legs wide, I smirk slightly. I know from experience that in this position, if Edward thrusts just right, he'll be not only hitting my g-spot, but rubbing his pelvic bone against my clit. I shiver in anticipation.

His hands run up and down my legs, still stinging on the surface, and he slaps my clit, startling me. I moan and press harder into his fingers, which he's left at the top of my pussy.

"Such an eager slut," he says softly, his words betraying his gentle tone.

The corners of my mouth tug up, and I smile halfway. I am his eager slut, eager only for him, his cock, his hands, whatever he's willing to give me.

Edward wastes no time, pushing into me quickly and hard. I groan in appreciation, my body responding automatically to his actions. If I'm not careful, I'll come too fast. The balance I'm hanging on now, dangling between the delicate edge of pain and diving into the pool of ecstasy at my feet, is precarious.

He continues to fuck me, hard and fast, and I know he's intent on taking me right to the edge. He must know I'm already there. His hands reach up to lightly slap my nipples, pulling and pinching, then making their way back down to do the same on my clit.

"Not yet, dirty girl," he admonishes, obviously feeling my inner muscles clench.

My back begins to hurt, the friction of my skin against the metal as he's thrusting is unpleasant. I arch my body up into his, and he groans loudly as he comes. His fingers are digging into my thighs, some right over where I can feel the burning sting still, and I begin to cry out. I'm desperate, frantic.

Taking gulping breaths, I remind my body to still, to pause the emotions and physical reactions that want so heavily to crash down on me.

One of Edward's hands is at my clit, rubbing furiously. Not in an unskilled manner, mind you, in the best way possible, he's bringing me to a quick orgasm, but I don't have permission yet. His other set of fingers are working magic on my breasts.

"Please," I beg.

"Almost," he replies. "Almost."

I'm at the cusp, and my entire body is wound so tightly, I know it's a matter of a few more back-and-forth motions and I won't be able to hold on. The physical reaction to stimulus can only be held off so long and the body will react with or without the brain's permission. I do everything I can, pull out every mental trick I know, and hang on to the ledge by the tips of my fingers. Add to this the fact that he's still inside me, and I can feel him growing hard again, and I'm a fucking desperate woman.

His fingers release my nipple and his nails scratch down the front of my body as he very quietly, very calmly says, "Now."

I do the only thing I can. I scream. I scream loudly, wildly, and I'm sure if anyone is in any proximity to where we are right now, they're dialing 911, certain someone's being murdered.

Moments later, I feel as if I reconnect to my body.

This is how it happens most of the time with Edward. He takes me on such a high that I lose myself. Then I find myself again, and it's glorious.

I'm a heaving, sobbing mess as I come down.

It takes only moments for me to realize what we've done, what I've allowed to be done to me in the haze of pleasure-seeking. I wonder if I've made the right choices. I've just let someone take a _blade_ to my body, and cut me. The panic from a few minutes earlier hits me, and I don't know what to do. Edward knows, however. And I remember and remind myself that he knows me better than I know myself, always.

Covering my body with his, he begins to whisper and talk to me. I tune in and realize he's thanking me. He's thanking me? Part of my panic dissipates, and I realize that some of my fears were centered around him being regretful of what we did.

Breathing heavily, I try to contain my tears, but I'm mostly failing. I feel Edward's hands at the back of my head, undoing both blindfolds. He releases them slowly, carefully exposing my eyes to the light they've been deprived of for what feels like hours. As I open them, I look at him and see the emotional toll the night has taken on him, as well. He kisses my lips softly, reassuring me of everything.

We lay like that for several minutes, his body covering mine, until we're sweaty and I can feel stinging again.

"Ow," I whisper.

Edward sits up, knees on either side of my body, and I notice hes not covered in blood, as I expect him to be. Before I can process or really think about why, my eyebrows furrow and I look at him questioningly.

"I'm not revealing my tricks. Hopefully now you'll remember that your mind is a great weapon," he says. The smirk on my face tells me he's very satisfied with himself.

"But-" I begin, but he cuts me off with a look.

I can't decide if I'm glad or disappointed as I look at the raised, red lines over my body. He hasn't cut me once. Yes, my skin is angry red where he's obviously been dragging _something_ across it, but it wasn't at blade after all.

My head is shaking again, and I'm truly conflicted about how to feel. The euphoria hits, however, and I begin to laugh through my tears. I sit up all the way, resting my arms on my bent knees, and put my head in my hands. I realize then, I'm relieved.

I'm relieved.

I know we'll spend the next several hours indulging in aftercare for each other, especially after an intense scene like this, but I'm struck again by how he knows me better than I know myself.

I'm grateful, as well, that he takes the time to know me like this. And I'm proud.

I'm His, and he is mine, and it's perfect.

**Please review? **

**I suspect this will be a one shot, but I may expand with other boundary pushing scenes between these two, if the reception and feedback is positive. Thank you for taking the time to read my little story!  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to chele681, who purchased me for Fandom Gives Back. I really wanted to write more of this story, so I am eternally grateful that she gave me this opportunity and we could raise a few dollars for charity. Thank you also to my beta, SweetDulcinea. **

**I do not own Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended. Copyright and trademarked items belong to their owners, not me. **

**This is a story about BDSM and specifically edgeplay. As such, it involves topics you may not be comfortable with.  
**

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Several weeks pass and I do as much research as I can about what Edward might have used on my body in that warehouse. I discovered after we cleaned up and he began to drive us home just how close we were to where we lived; Edward must've driven around, attempting to throw me off if I'd been trying to guess where we were at.

Then one day, it hit me: I don't give a fuck what he used. The instrument was just that – an instrument. The act was divine. Divine in his love for me, my trust in him, and how it altered and changed both of us.

Before that night, I'd have told you I trusted Edward implicitly. Something changed, though, and our trust was so different now. Deeper, clearer, truer, somehow.

We talk several times about our limits, how our perceptions have changed and skewed after that night. I am surprised to discover several of Edward's limits shifting, most opening up further. I take time, evaluate where mine are, and revise my own list. We keep them online, available to look at and edit at any time. As I double-check each of the things I previously had negative association with, I compare to Edward's list and try to find something new that we agree upon, wanting to chase the high of playing in new territory with him again.

One night I arrive home to find an outfit laying on my bed. Checking the special email we use to communicate, I see his note.

_Ms. Swan_, it begins. I shiver, because Edward never addresses me by my last name. _What you did today in class was inexcusable. I expect to see you in my office after hours for your punishment. Mr. Cullen_

My heart picks up speed at his words, and I read them several times, reading between the lines and interpreting what he means. I panic, because it's a work night and he knows we both have to be up early. Shaking my head as I pick up the tiny clothes, examining each piece, I accept that he has me for as long as he wants. Even if it means I'm a fucking zombie the next day, if I get zero sleep, I know I'll stroll into work with a smile on my face and every moment will have been worth it.

Stepping out of my boring work clothes, I pick up the skirt first. There are no panties, of course, and this plaid thing will barely cover my ass. I pull it up, then bend over, confirming my suspicion – I'm on display for everyone and anyone looking.

Next, I sit on the bed and pull the white socks on. They feel nice against my legs, silky and smooth, and I smile. The black bra will certainly show through the white shirt, and by the time I tug it on and button the front, I'm feeling very Britney Spears á la Baby One More Time. My skirt is even shorter, though, and my shoes far less practical. At least she got chunky heels; I'm now wearing stilettos so high I'm glad that I'm just walking down the hall for fear I'd fall on my face if I had to go any further.

Just like Britney, I tie the white shirt in a knot around my midriff, exposing most of my bra-covered chest; it's then that I notice the fuzzy rubber bands and laugh. I debate ponytails versus braids and settle on the braids, thinking of how they'll give Edward something to really grab. Some traction, whereas the smooth silk of a ponytail might lead to slipping. Wouldn't want that.

I check myself in the mirror and almost laugh. I look significantly younger, but there is such a contradiction – the skirt, the shoes, the open shirt, the innocent braids... it's all overkill, but exactly perfect. On my way out, I stop in the bathroom and add more makeup, then spray a little too much perfume on, adding those last few important details.

Edward's office door is closed, and I look at the floor as my knuckles tap quietly against the wood. The deep thunk matches the pace of my rapidly beating heart and I take a few deep breaths. My brain begins to work overtime thinking about what Edward wants to do tonight, how he'll use me and pleasure himself.

When the door opens and I see an unusual pair of shoes, I have to fight the desperate urge to look up.

"Ms. Swan," Edward says, and I can tell he's somewhere inside the room. "You may look up as you walk in."

I do so, meeting the eyes of Garrett, a friend of ours. I use the term friend loosely – he's more a friend of Edward's who I happen to know from a few play parties.

"I've invited Principal Lawson here to observe us. He heard about your infraction and wanted to ensure that you received a proper punishment."

I'm uncertain what's expected of me. Sure, people have watched us before, and I've enjoyed it every single time, but I still don't even know if I've genuinely done something Edward is going to punish me for or if this entire moment is made up.

I do my best to lead him into giving me some information. "I'm so sorry, Mister Cullen, for whatever it is that I did..."

The sharp smack of a ruler on the desk draws my attention away from him, and I realize his office has been completely rearranged. There's now a large desk at one side, and a smaller school desk facing it.

"Did you already forget?" Edward asks, an eyebrow carefully lifted.

"I …" _Fuck. "_I guess I did, Mister Cullen."

His pants visibly tighten at my repeat of his surname, and I make a mental note to try that sometime not mid-scene.

"Sit down," he commands.

I comply, crossing my legs once I'm seated. I know they can't see much, but they can see skin and it makes my heart beat even faster.

"Do you see this, Principal Lawson? Do you see how she sits, those long fucking legs just taunting me?"

Garrett is sitting next to Edward, both of them leaning against the larger desk facing me. I take one of my braided pigtails in my hand and twirl it slightly, deciding I may as well pour on the innocent seductress act, if this is what he wants.

"I bet she doesn't even have panties on," Garrett says, nudging Edward.

I bite my cheek to keep from grinning. They're too much, both of them acting and being adorable. I make such a rookie mistake in this moment, and I play into the scene, forgetting our ultimate goal.

My right foot hits the ground directly next to the other, and my knees shift out just slightly. Nothing is visible – yet – but the hint of it is there. I pick up the frilly pink pen on the desk and put it to my lips.

"Do you want to see what happened earlier?" Edward asks Garrett, both of their eyes still trained directly on me.

"Yes," he says. "I think in order to properly understand her punishment, I need to see the crime."

Edward stands, moves away from the desk, and pulls my pen from my hands.

"She dropped her pen," he says as my pen hits the floor. "Except, she didn't bend at the knees to pick it up. This dirty little girl bent all the way over in front of the whole class."

When his words end, his right eyebrow raises again, in expectation. Just as he's silently requested, I stand and bend, recreating the scene that never happened. When I'm touching the pen on the ground, I wait just a beat longer than I should have, enjoying the feeling of their eyes on my body. Enjoying their looks I can't see, but have memorized. Enjoying the way their pants tighten and their breathing increases. Teasing them the way Schoolgirl Bella undoubtedly would have. In this sense, I suppose, I do earn my punishment.

Not only do I pick my pen up from the ground like this, but when I stand and turn to face them, I've undone another button. Because fuck it all, if I'm getting punished, I'm going to damn well earn it.

The pink tube goes between my lips again and I sit, this time making no pretense of crossing my legs, and smile.

"I'm so sorry, Mister Cullen. I ran out the door this morn-"

Edward holds his hand up and his eyes narrow. He's genuinely looking pissed now, and I feel my heart skip a beat. We're sliding under, slipping faster, and needing more.

"I can see why you decided she needed punishment, Edward. What do you have planned?" Garrett asks.

"Let's begin, shall we?"

Edward looks at Garrett and for the first time, I notice how they're silently communicating. No doubt having had hours, days, weeks for all I know, to prepare this scene, they have the execution worked out down to the minute, I'm guessing.

"Miss Swan," Edward says, sitting in the rolling chair behind the large desk. "You will come over here and bend over my knee immediately."

The internal debate rages for about five seconds before I rise and do as I'm told. I could have argued, could have played a little into the scene more, but so far, everything has been so fun and I'm not concerned with the consequences.

My body molds over his knees, the uncomfortable feeling of his knee bones jutting into my stomach, and I am immediately far less comfortable than I imagined. I realize it's because his knees are together, not spread apart as they usually are when I'm in this position.

The first smack lands so loud and so suddenly, I cry out, startled. Tears begin to well behind my eyes and I'm genuinely surprised and in pain. The second smack is a repeat, except his hands don't leave my body. Instead, they drift just slightly lower, fingertips grazing my swollen lips.

It's then that I remember why we're here, why I'm here. I've allowed myself to be lulled into the fun of the moment, instead of remembering that Edward likes to spank hard, and pull and bite, and fuck if I don't like some of those things too, but not all of them, and not all at once. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself of the pleasure that is serving him, and close my eyes. Somehow, it's easier to find my necessary mental place this way.

As the third strike lands, it morphs in my head and I'm uncertain if he's simply spanked me differently or if I've just found the right mental area and it's turned pleasurable. This time, I have to fight to keep the moan in. Then I remember I don't have to.

Strike four against my right cheek stings, but I breathe a soft moan out and feel Edward pinch my lip. It doesn't hurt, but gets my attention and causes my eyes to fly open.

"Are you enjoying this, Miss Swan?" he asks tersely.

I look up at him. "No, Mister Cullen." I'm sure he can see the smirk I'm hiding, as strike number five is harder than the previous, and I feel the tears again.

Edward's legs widen, shifting how I'm sitting atop them, and I notice movement to our side. Garrett is now standing in front of me, fumbling with his belt buckle.

"I told Principal Lawson that you would be so very sorry for your actions earlier, but here you are, a squirming little slut in my lap. You're probably getting my pants all messy, too, aren't you?"

I bite my lip in an innocent move perfected eons ago, batting my wet eyelashes at him in response.

"You're going to have to show Lawson just how sorry and repentant you are," Edward says, not even bothering to hide his smirk.

As Garrett's pants drop to the ground, the buckle jingling against itself, I lick my lips. My eyes are still on Edward's as I lower my head and open my mouth. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Garrett's cock, a tiny glint of liquid at the tip, and slide my mouth around it. I refuse to tear my vision from my Master's face, in an act of sheer stubbornness, as my mouth glides up and down the shaft of the cock. My head is at an awkward angle, but I couldn't care less. I register Master's emotions changing, but can't quite tell how and to what.

For the sixth time, his palm meets my flesh, and I smirk around Garrett's cock, not even attempting to hide it anymore.

Before I realize his hand has moved, Master is tugging both of my braids, forcing my head to turn away from his, and scolding me to pay better attention to the cock in front of me.

Well, yes sir.

Now that I'm more comfortably situated on his lap, he uses one hand to hold both braids, tugging and controlling my mouth. His other hand teases me, then pushes into me roughly, fucking me. Moaning around the flesh in my mouth, I'm conflicted between looking up at Garrett and keeping my eyes down.

Another tug at my braids forces my head up and I allow my eyes to do the same. Garrett's head is back, hands at his hips, lost in what I'm doing to him. How I'm pleasuring him. The idea makes me work harder and better, slicking myself up and down, swirling my tongue around him, and I realize I'm moving on Master's lap in time to his fingers thrusting into me.

Pulling them out, he smacks my ass a seventh time, provoking a long, deep moan from me. I have to work through the pain from the wet fingers stinging my skin and close my eyes again.

Hands move, bodies shift, and I can feel my head being pulled and pushed in time to Garrett fucking my mouth. He must've taken over holding the braids, as Master's other hand is now pulling and pinching my nipples.

The eighth time his hand meets my body, he's shifted and it lands directly over my clit. It hurts, stinging and aching, and makes me want more. I have no time to even think about how many more he's going to land there when I feel him begin a rapid succession of them, too many for me to even keep track of.

My head is lower on Garrett's cock, by my own doing or his I'm no longer sure, as I take him as far as I can. Each time he's buried in me, my tongue snakes out, seeking _more more more_. Edward's hands are still manipulating my body; not teasing, not ramping me up, simply acting as the implement for his pleasure. He's taking, taking, taking, and I feel him so hard beneath me.

Suddenly, it's not his hand on my ass but a paddle. He starts lightly, small taps and slaps to warm my body to this change, and when I'm sure he's noticed I'm squirming more, he ramps it up.

Garrett's hands tighten in my hair, likely the increased stimulation on his cock making him that much more ready to come, and I prepare as best I can. He's not allowed to come in my mouth, I'm certain of that, so I try not to tense when I contemplate the alternate places it might land. The practical side of me closes my eyes and waits nervously.

A few moments later, he withdraws from my mouth and I can feel the warm streams of liquid land on my body. I have no idea if he's aiming or just letting loose, but my breasts are now dripping. I try as hard as I can to focus on how good my Master is making me feel, instead of the opposite feeling on the other side of my body. Had it been Edward coming all over me, I'd have relished the feeling, but this was different somehow, lacking the connection with Garrett. I thought about how erotic it was to be used as Master's toy, and that got me to better headspace.

When I've turned the situation around into something dirty and hot in my head, I realize I'm still being paddled. The sting of the flat board as it hits my flesh makes me moan quietly, my head now lowered.

Much lighter, he lowers the paddle and begins slapping at my bare lips, stopping to rub the wood against them periodically. Each time it passes over my clit and rubs just the right way, I squirm more in his lap. After several minutes of this attention, I'm almost at the edge of where I want to be.

Unfortunately, Master knows this, too.

"Naughty, dirty girls do not get to come, do they, Ms. Swan?"

I whimper.

"No, Mister Cullen."

There's just no use in fighting it. The tone, the feel of this night, tells me that I'll be going to bed a very horny girl.

"Sit up," he orders, hands already at my hips and moving me before my brain can register the command fully.

His fingers grip my waist, readjust my skirt, and somehow open his fly on his pants all before I've regained my bearings. I'm facing away from him and only know his cock is out because I can feel it against my back, hard and ready for me. Before I get lost thinking about it, he's inside me, fucking me so hard I can't hold in the squeals of delight.

My eyes lower to the ground on instinct, afraid Garrett will catch me looking for him and get me into trouble. My lower lip is sucked inside my mouth, a self-imposed tiny gag to hopefully keep me quiet. The torture of Master fucking me while Garrett watches on is intense. It's this torture that I look forward to, crave, and beg for.

When Master comes, it's a relief of sorts for me. I know that I won't have to feel him sliding in and out, fucking me hard and seeking his own pleasure from me. Just thinking about it after he's done makes my insides clench and I can feel him oozing out of me. Somehow, it makes me smile, this small connection between us. As much as he allows others to play and be involved, he's the only one that can come inside me, so I see it as a gift between us.

"Hopefully this will teach you to keep focused on your studies, Miss Swan," he says. "You may go."

With that, I step off his body and make my way to the shower. As the warm water streams over my body, I cleanse myself. I wash away Garrett's come, my guilt at loving every fucking minute of what we all just did together, and the negative feelings that swell inside of me after certain scenes and moments.

I take a moment to cry, to indulge in my negativity and self-loathing, and just as I've wiped the last tear and sucked in my last hiccupped breath, a warm body slips behind me in the shower.

.

The whole week, I waffle between being horny, being angry, and wondering when Edward will test my limits again. I'd been so looking forward to our next hard playtime that, when Garrett appeared and I knew we were having fun with a particular scene, some part of me was disappointed.

I hated feeling disappointment in myself, and doubly when I felt it toward Edward. He did the best he could to meet both of our needs, but still, now that I'd skated that edge and found that high, I wanted it again.

That night, I can't contain it any longer and I leave a note for Edward in our designated spot, addressed to Master. I use all of the techniques I know, begging and pleading for him to bring me to those highs again, while trying to be respectful and appreciative of everything he already does. I'm walking a thin line, and I worry he'll think I'm trying to top from the bottom. All I can do is hope that he can see just how desperate and thankful I am for the last time, and how my love and trust for him has grown.

As I expected, I seem to get no response as the week presses on. My anxiety builds and I look forward to the upcoming weekend, though.

It's all for naught, however, as our playtime is limited to brief segments throughout the non-work portions of our week and weekend.

.

Master assigns me a writing task for my journal and I set about doing it. He wants to know what it is about the not-quite-cutting scene that makes me want more. This essay could take me days to write, I muse as my pen meets the paper.

I'm so engrossed in my writing and thoughts that I don't hear Edward enter the room, but when the blindfold slips over my eyes, I know it can only be him. My wrist is encased by cold leather, then the other, and I'm being pulled to stand.

"Get up, we're walking."

Now that I've heard his voice and been reassured that it is indeed Master, I let out a deep breath and inhale to find myself, ground myself, allow that girl to wake up and play.

The smirk spreads across my lips as we walk, Master handling me roughly, the way he knows I love. My ass has been spanked to get me to move quicker, dark words whispered into my ear to bring out my anticipation, and I can feel my entire body and brain preparing. This is going to be the night I wanted.

We arrive somewhere in the house and I'm pushed down to my knees. Bare floor meets them in an unkind way and I can't find it in me to be upset.

"Beg me," he says simply. The two words slay me in the best possible way.

"Please, Master," I plead in my kindest voice, feeling the heat from him in front of me.

Knowing he still has his clothes on from the sounds his pants made as we walked here makes me ache and burn to reach out to him and undress him; to show him how I'd really like to beg.

"Please let me show you just how thankful I am," I say. "Let me worship you and show my appreciation for everything you do for me."

Each tooth of the zipper sliding down shatters in my ears, and I lick my lips in anticipation. His strong hand cups my jaw, the other guiding his cock into my mouth and I lick and suck him with abandon. My body reacts viscerally to his audible reaction, and I resist the urge to sway.

His hand continues to stroke my face, pull my hair, guiding me as he fucks my mouth. I'm delirious with pleasure and love and lust as we continue, and when his come hits the back of my mouth, I swallow him down greedily. Not because I love (or even like) the taste, but because this is him, his gift, and I want to take it all, every single time.

Sated, he pushes at the indent of my collarbone, removing my mouth from his body. "You want me to push you, girl?" he asks.

"Please," I beg again.

"Be careful what you ask for."

Tugging me off the floor, he guides me somewhere quickly. My orientation in the room is soon lost, my sense of sight depriving me of the usual markers and information. When my body presses against a cold table, I feel his directly behind me. He's hard and scratchy, and his hands go to my breasts immediately, cupping and tugging.

"Get on the table," he says quietly into my ear. His voice has taken a harsh tone, one that I know after many conversations is somewhat required of him, to get to the place he needs to be at in his own mind.

It's metal, the table, and my skin prickles at the feel of it beneath me. I situate my body and wait what feels like hours.

"Hands above your head."

My body stretches, taught and tight, as I lift my arms. It feels probably just how it looks – that I'm exposed and waiting, open and ready for whatever he gives.

A clicking noise startles me from my thoughts, and it repeats. _Click, click, click._ Then? The unmistakable sound of a flame. A very loud flame.

Panic begins to consume me as I hear the hissing of the fire moving. I know – really know – that Edward would never hurt me, but this noise? It scares the fuck out of me.

And excites me.

I try, uselessly, to contain my breathing. I know that if I continue to inhale and exhale at this pace, I'll have to use my safeword. I simply cannot allow that to happen, not in this moment I've begged for so frequently, and I close my eyes even tighter behind the fabric.

The noise in the room falls away as I begin to recite poetry. e.e. Cummings and Dickinson sing to me, their words a force against my thoughts. As I'm digging deep in my head to find another memorized poem to recite, I realize there are cold fingers on my skin. How long they've been there, I have no idea.

I can't hear the flame anymore, but really can't tell if that's because it's gone or I'm distracted. Fingers teasing and touching and offering me pleasure go a long way in helping me calm down, as well.

Warmth spreads on my belly, but before I attribute it to the hands working me, I realize they're skimming the surface after the warmth.

_After the warmth._

A ragged breath leaves my mouth and I inhale through my nose, almost confirming my suspicions. I wait until the warm feeling passes over me several more times, and then I'm certain – Edward is using fire on my body.

I imagine tiny hairs singeing, skin turning bright red, and his hands all over me, putting out the literal flame. Heat travels over my stomach, the arch and slope of my breasts, the inside of my thighs (which I've unconsciously spread wider), and several other places.

I'm hot – not just from the heat, but from what he's doing. He's dared to go to this place with me again, and the mental pleasure is unparalleled. The thoughts of what he's doing scare me, really scare me, knowing that he could do such harm should things get out of control, but I repeatedly remind myself to trust him. He's done nothing but earn it over the years, and been nothing but exceedingly safe with me.

Reminding myself of this, of our bond, I fall blissfully deeper in my head.

Cupping and caressing continues endlessly, until I feel like my whole body is simultaneously on fire and being stimulated by his actions. I worry I might come just from his hands over me, just from the thoughts of what he's doing and the way my legs are shifting, seeking friction I've been denied for so long. The sting of his hand slapping my thigh reminds me I am forbidden, and I do my best to lie still again.

Master's body is above me, on me, skin rubbing against every irritated sensitized spot, and I just want more. The sting from the flame aches, but the desire for him burns hotter. When he finally enters me, I arch my back and vocalize something that can't even be described as a moan, defying definition. He feels so good, even where it hurts.

Long, lean, and hard, he fucks me at his leisure, fingertips tracing what I can only imagine are spots he touched with flame. The sting resonates through my body as we move together. Even as he takes, he gives. Small touches, flicks, it's for me, and for him. His words are quiet and soft, nothing and everything at the same time, and when he comes, he is silent and still.

Inside, I am anything but still.

I wait, his body still against mine. I can feel him breathing, catching his breath, chasing his rhythm. When he lifts away from me, I whimper ever so slightly, missing his presence.

One of his hands takes my right, lowering it to my body, and together, our fingers dip inside. His curls and presses, mine are frantic and full of appreciation at the opportunity. We work together until I'm right at the cusp, frighteningly aware that I've not been given permission to come.

"Please," I beg again, this time for something vastly different. "Please." My voice is soft and shaky, my body vibrating on the edge.

Directly in my ear, the word resonates, and my world shatters. "Come," is all it takes, having been kept needy and wanting for too long already.

I do, long and hard, muscles clenching fingers, and my voice creating new words and sounds. Tears stream from my eyes, soaking my blindfold, and I am certain this is the best, hardest, most intense orgasm I've had, ever.

Without permission, I curl into myself when my body has begun to relax. I have no choice, I can feel the almost visceral coming apart, and I'm working on instinct, protecting myself. From what, I have no idea, because frankly, the hard part is now over. Physically, at least.

I want to fold into myself, bind my body with fabric and thoughts, and escape. I don't understand the thoughts even as I think them, and wonder if I've somehow damaged some important part of myself beyond repair.

Edward moves me, how, I have no idea, but before I can contemplate the logistics of it, I'm cooled by the cotton blanket on our bed, and warmed inside and out by his touches and words.

Quietly, he's whispering to me. Reminding me how much he loves me, but I can hear the question in his voice. I don't even know what the answer is, don't know anything anymore.

My body heaves as I cry, some unnamable emotion wracking me.

When I can breathe again, calm fogging my brain finally, I realize I'm no longer blindfolded. I open my eyes infinitesimally, allowing the light to reassure me that I'm okay.

Edward's hands sweep up my face, brushing my hair from where it's been matted down, and he kisses me lightly.

In his words, in his expression, I know he gets it. I know he understands the corner we just went to, and how profound the moment was between us. I can see in his eyes that he feels it too.

"Welcome back," he says.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you to my beta, SweetDulcinea, and to my pre-readers. They know who they are, and they know the depth of my love and appreciation for them.**

**PLEASE NOTE: This is a sensitive topic. This story is about edgeplay, we're really skating the edge this time, and this chapter is NOT sexy. It is not intended to titillate or excite you. It is intended to tell another piece of the puzzle in the journey of this Edward and this Bella. **

**I apologize if you were looking forward to more of their dirty times together. I waffled about posting this or not posting it, and in the end, I decided to post it. I hope, after reading, you can understand why. I declared this to be a oneshot and have already extended it, so for now, I will simply say that I may or may not continue their journey. This takes me to a very dark place in my head, and I find it difficult to write at times. I appreciate your patience and understanding.**

**I own nothing related to the Twilight series, simply my own words. No copyright infringement is intended.  
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"I can't do that," he says.

He's adamant. I can tell that swaying him will be difficult, but I see a flicker of something that makes me think it's not a completely lost cause.

"Why not?" I ask.

The couch is somehow hard and unyielding beneath me, when every time before, it's been a plush spot of relaxation and comfort. I shift, trying to find a different position and some small softness against my skin to balance the hardness inside my body.

Edward also shifts in his place, and I can see the discomfort on his face.

"I don't want to," he says. "I don't want to hurt you like that. Degrade you like that."

I laugh at this response.

"Edward, surely you've hurt me in other ways? Degraded me, as well?"

"It's different," he argues. "Those were done under certain conditions, and in love."

"Love?" I snort. "And, this is a very specific condition and circumstance. We will have clear boundaries and pre-agreed limits. I'm not asking for anything outside of or different from what we've already done."

"That's not true," he whispers. "It's very different, and you know why."

The look he has on his face explains everything, and he's right, I do know why. But that exact reason is why I want it, why I will argue again that I need him to do this for me. Even as he retreats from the discussion, I know his mind is still working on it, still processing it and trying to find a way to give it to me. Because, as much as I know I need it, I suspect Edward knows I need it even more.

Our playtime falls into a lull; routine, if you will, after this conversation. Bondage, sensation, orgasm (his, not mine). Lather, rinse, repeat. Edward's distance bothers me, because it doesn't just creep into the times when we play, it creeps into everything. His eyes lose their vibrancy, his voice lacks the passion he typically speaks with, and his body is limp and saggy.

It begins to weigh on me, that my life, my baggage, has this extended affect on him as well.

I find myself acting out, provoking him, and thus, receiving more punishments. We get stuck in this cycle, and we're both ramping it up higher and higher – his frustration with my behavior mounting, and my own need to feel pain, to be actually punished for my past, my present, everything. The need to feel it lick and sear my skin, hurt and bruise me, brand my heart and let the tears that I am so incapable of shedding during the day fall like rain in the darkness of our space together.

Finally, one night, it snaps. I don't know who whispers it first, or if anyone even says anything at all, but we're both done. My body and mind are exhausted, near broken, and my spirit is clinging by a thin thread.

I lay on the bench heaving and gasping for breath between my sobs. I can't even bring myself to look up at him, to check on him, to care. I'm so lost in my head, so so lost.

For several minutes, all I can think is _breathe_.

Focusing on those seven letters allows my brain to slowly return to semi-normal function, and I realize that I have no idea why we stopped. I didn't safeword, and now that I'm sifting through and replaying the events in my head, I don't recall Edward saying anything.

I lift my head and look for him. When I find him in the corner, his back edged all the way to where the walls meet, I'm not sure what to think. It takes a few more minutes for me to compose my own thoughts and realize that in this moment, he might need me more than I need him.

Thankfully, I'm not bound to anything, so I stand and walk to him. His head is in his hands, resting against his knees, which are pulled tightly to his chest. I don't know what to say, don't know how to approach him, or this discussion.

My legs bend, and on auto-pilot, I sit next to him. Our bodies have a sliver of space between them, and I'm afraid to touch him. I'm afraid that if I do, he'll look up at me and I will see all of the damage and sadness projected back at me. That's the very last thing I want, so I sit and I wait.

Our breathing begins to sync and I can tell he's shifted through several moods. The emotion seems to roll off him, and I can sense when he's gone from sadness to anger to resolve.

"I want to help you," he begins. "I just don't know if I can. I don't know if I can go there in my head. How do I do that and not become that person?"

For once, I don't have an answer. He's asked the one question I haven't. I really want to answer him, though. I stumble, muttering and stuttering a few words, then realize it's useless.

"I don't know. I didn't think of that," I confess. "But we're both different people in the confines of what we do together, in that way. You're not that person; you're just doing something I've asked you to do. Do you know what I mean?"

He's quiet and thoughtful, and I can't help but watch him. He's so beautiful, even in this pained state. I want to hold him in my arms and comfort him, this man giving me these gifts over and over. I want to remind him of all he's done for me, for us, and how much I worship him. Mostly, I want him to hear me, to really understand me, and to trust that these things I've asked of him are possible without permanent harm between us.

"I guess..." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "I guess when you put it that way, it makes sense. The act, not the person. This is what you want?"

"Yes."

"You think it's going to help you?" he asks. "I mean, really help? Why won't it just make things worse?"

Ah, the million dollar question. I've asked myself this so many times, I've lost track of the count. I've also talked to several other submissives and some slaves, and we've had some group discussions about the dynamic of people in these roleplay situations.

"It might, I can't lie Edward. I might be all wrong, and it might make things exponentially worse in my head, but I have a hunch that it won't. I've been through enough, thought about it enough, and the way I think we could work it would be different enough, but still similar, you know?" I ramble, trying to find the one thing I can think of that would convince him. "I think I need to experience that complete loss of control with someone I trust, someone that will take it from me, but that I know, absolutely _know_ isn't harming me."

As he speaks, he turns his face to mine. "How do you want it to be different?" He looks curious, and I'm thankful that it's still on the table for discussion.

"For one," I begin, "I want to know when and where it will happen. I want to know exactly what you'll do, and I don't want a safeword."

Edward shakes his head. "No way. I don't care if you don't intend to use it, there is absolutely no fucking way I will do this without a safeword."

"Okay," I say. There's no point in arguing – safeword or not, I won't use it. If it makes him feel better, it's one thing I can concede.

"I agree that you should know when and where, but I don't know if knowing everything I have planned will help you. Won't that take you out of the moment?" he asks. "I also don't know how I will react until I'm in the moment, and I want to be able to be flexible. I don't want to agree to something that I can't do and then we'll both be out of the scene and it'll be useless."

We talk, negotiating and bartering, for hours. Finally, we agree on terms. We agree on a date several weeks in the future, but decide that leaving the exact time and location to Edward is best. He's right, in a lot of ways, that I don't want to know too many details. I will worry and it will spin in my brain on an endless loop, and this is supposed to be a soothing experience for me. Well, as soothing as it can be.

The weeks pass slowly. Time has taken on new meaning to me, and I can see Edward lighten, which surprises me. We talk more about what's coming up, and even though I feel prepared, I know there's no way I can ever really be prepared for what we've agreed to do.

I don't sleep at all the night before. I doze here and there, but mostly, I worry. I worry that I'm not making the right choice. I worry that this will push Edward too far. I'm worried that it will push me too far, and that I'll be irrevocably broken after.

I worry so much.

Thankfully, I don't have to work. In fact, I've taken off the beginning of the next week, as has Edward, in an attempt to pre-plan enough aftercare. Who can really predict what will be "enough" though? I try as much as I can to be calm, but ready. Edward and I have texted back and forth like any normal day. His words seem to soothe me and reaffirm that he's okay with things. I know he's come to a point where he can see the necessity of this day, the importance and weight of it, and that makes me glad. I know he planned it so far ahead so that he'd have time to get his head in the right spot, and it's one of the things I love about him – he wouldn't have agreed if he hadn't been able to think he could execute it perfectly, and had the faith required in both of us.

The sun sets and my anxiety grows. Did he forget? Did he change his mind? Reality TV has taken over in the living room, and I haven't bothered to get out of my pajamas. I fall asleep with my tank top twisted, the legs of my sleep pants riding up, but I can't even be bothered to care, I'm so exhausted.

I'm startled awake – being lifted, carried, not kindly, somewhere. I can't see. I can barely breathe, already, my chest so tight with anticipation.

"Edward?" I ask, frantic.

Nothing. Not a sound from his throat, no confirmation, no denial.

Emptiness overtakes me. Suddenly, my fight instinct kicks in, and I'm scratching, clawing, hitting, biting. I'm doing whatever I can to get out of this, my brain simply terrified. I remind myself that I asked for this, but it's no use – it doesn't matter, because right now, my brain isn't in this moment. My brain is stuck back then. The last time this happened. The last time I felt this truly out of control.

I can tell he's struggling, and my body lands somewhere. I try as hard as I can to figure out where I am. Am I outside? Inside? There's hard ground beneath me, but it could be floor. My panic simply escalates. My body moves, jerks, and I reach out and fight harder. I can feel that I'm hurting him, but I don't care. I need this. I need to hurt him, the man that hurt me so deeply.

My hands are taken out of my control, somehow, somewhere. I have no time to focus on them or what he's done with them, until I feel something cold against my chest. The rip of the fabric screams in my ears, and I feel so exposed. Humiliated. Empty. Open. Lost.

I stop fighting. There's no point, and I know it. I want to live, want to see another day, want to see my family, and to do that, I know I have to give in.

In my head, I'm chanting that if I give him this, he'll let me go. He's promised several times, the man in my head, and I believe him for some reason. It's my only choice, my only hope.

From my mouth, I realize, I'm screaming. It's so loud my throat hurts and my ears ache, but I can't stop. Fabric invades, and again, I'm stifled.

I can hear _him_ so clearly, right in my ear, his disgustingly throaty voice, as he tells me to be quiet. He reminds me that he'll let me go, just as soon as he's done. I don't want to see my family die, do I? He asks, and the pain at that thought ripples through me. I would do anything to spare my family – anything.

So I do.

I lay there in my body, but not, and I let him fuck me. I let him bruise me, body and soul, and I let him take what hasn't been given, ever, to anyone.

My tears soak the covering on my eyes. My screams become sobs. My body is pliant and my brain is transported back all those years.

Briefly, I wonder if I will get stuck in this moment, in this pain. I wonder if this was a dangerous game to play with myself, trying to rewrite this memory, replay and rewrite this history. The pain takes me back under, however, and I can't think about anything but what he's doing to my body.

Hours, minutes, seconds, I have no idea, no way to mark time anymore, pass, and I realize I'm alone. I'm out of tears, out of voice to scream, out of everything. Empty, again.

The usual things I do to control myself in this place inside my brain come back to me. I breathe deeply, I wiggle my fingers, I try to move my legs. The pain is so intense, inside and out, and I feel as though I've been ripped in two. Even though I know it's a memory, I know Edward has not harmed me in this same way, to the same extent, the physical pain rolls over me.

I drift between the reality and the memory, body and brain fighting together and against each other, waging a war of decision. When I'm in the reality, I can tell my body is not nearly as harmed as it was back then, and for a brief moment, I'm angry at Edward. I expected this experience to wipe the previous, like writing on a whiteboard, but there is nothing that can do that. Nothing.

The reality of one memory not being able to overtake another hits, and my tears begin anew. Languishing, my head flops to the side, and I am lost again in memory. Trying to find myself wherever he's left me, attempting to figure out where I am, how to get home, how to cover this all up. Pretend. Be okay.

Even before I can get up off the now freezing ground, my brain has begun to work overtime to fix it, to erase and cover up, and forget. To hide it away in some secret place that cannot be touched, talked about, or felt again.

Except, I've opened it like a gaping wound, and I come back to myself, my real self, lying on the ground, exposed and raw. It's quiet, but I know he's still here. We've agreed that he will wait for me to touch him, to let him know I'm okay, but I don't know that I am yet. I'm still floating and swimming and uncertain.

I'm cold, though, and it's the shiver from my body that provokes my brain to react and respond, wanting so desperately to stay in this moment, in the now, and regroup. One last gasping shudder of breath is sucked through my lungs, and I realize my mouth is clear. There is no gag, there are no bindings, there is no bad man. Not anymore.

Curling onto my side, I draw every part of my body into my center. My arms wrap around my knees and I tuck my chin to my chest. I want to be as small as possible in this moment, because so much is uncertain.

How can Edward love this, love me, at all?

How can anyone sane and rational have requested this? Wanted it?

Breaking our agreement, Edward's hand rests on my shoulder. It's light, and heavy. Perfect, and all wrong. When he says my name, I crack and crumble again. I stay in the moment, but it crushes me. Before I can get too far into my thoughts, Edward has me in his lap. It's warm and soft, and though I can't bring myself to open my eyes yet, his touch holds me together.

"Bella," he says almost so quietly I can't hear, "It's past midnight. I'm going to carry you inside, okay?"

I don't trust my voice to speak words instead of leftover screams, so I nod against his chest. My eyes hurt from being closed so tightly for so long. Colors that long ago exploded behind them at the intensity with which I've got them shut have faded, but they may as well be superglued for all I care. Opening them means I acknowledge this happened, and I'm still not there. Still not ready.

My body seems to vibrate with adrenaline and energy once I'm slightly warmed by what I assume is our house. Edward's hands are on my face, swiping wetness from my cheeks, and smoothing my eyebrows, pressing the muscles in my face and causing them to relax.

Finally, I open my eyes. Carefully at first, blinking and appreciating that there is no harsh light in the room, but then fully. Well, as fully as I can, considering they are certainly swollen. He's a blur, but he's Edward, and he has me in his arms still. He looks haggard, disheveled, upset, but I can't tell if it's aimed more at me, or himself. Perhaps both.

I shift and sit up in his arms, never putting any distance between us, needing him closer, in fact. His arms move around me and again I feel as though he's holding me together. My chin rests on his shoulder and I breathe and think and consider.

"Shower?" I ask. My voice cracks as I speak, hoarse from everything, and tentative.

"Of course."

He carries us both into the stall, and when I'm on my feet again, it's another moment that serves to ground my mind, my thoughts. I'm here. I'm safe. I'm loved.

Throughout the time we spend in the shower, we touch each other, cleaning our bodies together, but we don't speak. I'm not ready, and I'm not sure if he is, either. Such a strange and truly scary place we've been together now, I worry we might never make it back to where we were before. The truth is, I'm not even certain of everything that transpired, so much of the time spent out of my own body and brain, simultaneously protecting myself and reliving. I realize I'll have to ask him to tell me, and that kills me – that I will force him to relive it as well. But I know he will, willingly.

Above all, in this moment, I can feel how much he loves me. Not loves me for my submission, not loves me for my body, or my brain, or any one thing in particular. How much he loves me for everything that I am, flaws _and_ perfections.

When we're in our bed, our safe place, the warmth surrounds me. Edward, our blankets, all of the smells, sounds, and sensations I love.

It will take us weeks to find our footing again. Weeks to rehash the events of that night. Weeks to play safely and comfortably in the confines of our room.

We find our way, together. I find my way to peace in my own head and heart, with Edward's hand in mine. He finds his way to peace with what he's done by seeing me so happy and light, more than he's ever seen, he says. And I believe him, because I feel it.

* * *

**I truly hope you feel I've handled this subject in the delicate manner which it deserves**.


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